Night of the Forgotten God
by Hossfeathers
Summary: An adaption of Night of the Dark God By Roy Thomas. Ragnthor returns home after 4 years away, hoping to find Lydia. But things don't go the way he hopes. Oneshot, AU


Night of the Forgotten God

The wind is tearing from the north, and it lashes mercilessly at the night dark waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Wind driven waves strain to reach the fretful grey clouds overhead. Thru the bleakness of the dying day stealing over the shore of Winterhold, a fisherman, worn and rugged at the land he stands on, secures his craft against the onrushing thunderheads. Suddenly, another man appears, lightly armored and packing a large sword.

"Who are you?" the fisherman asks.

Striding like a man in the grasp of fury he replies "I need your boat."

"To hell with you! No half bred, lowland bastard…"

The man draws his greast sword like lightening "I've killed men for saying less. Now answer me, while you still have life and breath, in your fishing today did you see a ship full of armed warriors" his voice drops suddenly, frighteningly "sailing toward the Isle of Swords?"

"Aye, there were two such, left here while the sea dwellers roved by land, to the south." He smiles wryly "Ah, now I see. They've been raiding the lowlands again. So now you're here, hunting vengeance." He waves a hand. "Forget those thoughts, foolish youth."

"Why? Because they are you're country men?"

"I have no country, save the sea. There are too many of them, that's all."

"I'll be the judge of that. Now as I said, your boat."

"You might slay me and take it, if you're different man than I think you are. Why not go home, instead of chasing two raider ships who sported no cargo save a…a captive girl." And suddenly the old man knows all.

At the mention of the girl the stranger's eyes start to simmer, like burning steel volcanoes. "So that's it, is it? I know that look! It was mine own years ago, when the raiders took my woman from my side, and only the sea mist drowned out her screams. Take the boat, with my blessing."

The man nods and pushes the boat into the surf. "You'll have it back again, if I return. And if I do not", he pulls out a bag and hurls it at the fisherman, "these gems will buy a new one. Farewell fisherman, and the first red-bearded devil who falls, I'll dedicate his soul to you."

The old man says nothing. But, long after the stranger and the boat are gone from sight, he stands more alone with his thoughts than he has in many a year.

No more alone, though, than Ragnthor stands as the winds catch the sail of the craft and hurl it even further from shore. Ragnthor cannot see the isle, or even the shore on the mist-shrouded sea. Nor can he guess the end of his bitter journey.

He realizes, however, something of the madness of it, the likelyhood that he might die, here, in the strange land. But he was bred to hardships in the bleak, savage land of his birth. And now, his thoughts race back, with a will of their own. To his childhood…and hers.

She seemed a part of him then…the only laughter in the grim, dark hills. Perhaps he should have said goodbye to her, that grizzly morning four winters gone. But because they both knew his restless soul would lead him south one day, they had never spoken of love…or the future…and suddenly it was too late.

Since that bleak dawn, many have been the marvels he has seen, and the deaths he's nearly died. Against flesh devouring ape and grim grey god, in the bone crushing grip of a snake-headed man and beneath of a star-spawned horror, aye and all the weirdling wonders of a world invisible between the green Tamriel and the dark deep gulfs of thrice-accursed infinity. And one thing he has learn, amid it all, that a man may die as readily from a hard-thrust blade as torn by the talons of a slavering demon.

There's glory in battle, true enough, in the letting of men's blood and the clash of steel on steel. But there is a weariness there too. Weariness of body, and weariness of soul, weariness that no amount of mead can cure.

And so one night, deep in drink in the flesh-pots of High Rock, there had come a vision to him he never meant to have. A vision of unspoiled innocence, as different from the painted women of Daggerfall as he from the fools and jackels surrounding him. Her name was Lydia.

And suddenly, the touch of the perfumed yellow haired woman on his left was a repellent to him and the clammy tough of a viper. He rose without a word, or a backward glance and stole the first stallion he chanced across, making for the many hilled land of Skyrim. High Rock hardly existed for him, nor the length of Hammerfell. There was a longing in his heart, that neither gold filled coffer nor gold colored drink had even quenched. Perhaps Lydia was the answer, after all. Aye, after all. Perhaps.

Then he reached the village of his birth. The smoldering rubble, the roughly hack corpses told him all he needed to know. Raiders had crossed the border again…to rape, ravage and destroy. And, at the house where he had once played hide-and-seek with Lydia, there were only weeping parents who barely knew him through their tears.

"She's gone, Ragnthor." Said the father.

"Gone?"

"Taken north…by the raiders…for their sport!"

Then the mother looked up from her black memories. "She spoke…often..of you."

In the old woman's voice a desperate quest had been born. And now….

Suddenly Ragnthor spies a boat, a crude vessel though larger than his own, and definitely not a raider craft. And even from this distance through the spray of the mist, he can see bodies. Young Ragnthor's skin crawls as he draws near, for shouldn't there be at least one man stirring on board if they didn't die of some loathsome plague?

Clambering aboard he comes face to face with the mystery. For amid the dozen or so raiders who lay lifelessly on the deck there are others, smaller of stature and in number then the raiders, as if each man had killed at least 2 before his own death.

"Reachmen" he mutters under his breath. Fierce enemies of Ragnthor's own hillborn people, yet many, many miles from the wilderness they call home. Ragnthor is musing thus when abruptly he sees what he hadn't seen before and, in that moment, knows what the Reachmen had died to protect.

Looking like the Reachmen, the statue seems old, exuding antiquity, as if it had witnessed the fall of Atmora itself. And Ragnthor thinks…yes, by the gods he'll have that statue. Astonishingly he finds he came lift it, for thought it feels as if it's made of metal, it's no heavier than if it had been made of light wood.

Even as he sails on he ponders the thing, for though it resembles the Reachmen it is far nobler in aspect. A king, perhaps almost a god. The small men died for their god.

In taking the statue Ragnthor half thought it might bring him luck. And now it seems that, through the gale roars around him, that a silent voice probes his innermost being and cries "This way barbarian, this way!" And thus, when the storm finally ceases and the skies start to clear, he is hardly surprised to see before him the Isle of Swords. And somehow, as he guides his craft toward the shore, he feels less like a grim avenger and more like a pawn in the grips of forces he could never hope to understand.

He shrugs his shoulders and strides on.

Swiftly he finds the dwelling of the dreaded sea raiders, by following the sounds of their celebrations. Celebration of the destruction they have wrought, the homes left in smoking embers, the slain men and ravished women.

There are no guards in sight, for who would beard the northern reavers in their own lair. None save a man whose hatred is a thing alive, and who's eyes strain for the sight of a lovely, pure face that….Men! Approaching from the direction he has come.

"Down! Let it down I say! Shor's Bones but…this thing we've found…must weigh a ton. Let's…rest a moment."

"No…time. There's ale inside…enough for all…but not if we wrestle all night with iron statues."

Iron? Ragnthor recalls the lightness of the thing, even as the mighty muscled raiders strain.

"Can't hold it…I tell you."

"Blast you Tostig…if you drop it I'll…Argggggggg. Curse you for a fool! You dropped it right on my foot. I…I think you broke it!"

"It twisted out of my hand, I swear it! By Shor, the thing's alive!"

"Alive!? Why then, I'll Slay It!" Fire flashes, as the raiders blade shivers into a hundred pieces. "The Devil's In It! I've not even scratched it!"

"And your foot's bleeding like a butchered hog. Forget the statue, and the fisherman's boat we found it in. No doubt he's hiding like a rat in the woods by now."

"No, that's not our to decide. Thorfel sent us out because he's had dreams. Dreams of an army of short men, like this one, stealing onto the island. He'll rejoice when he learns it was nothing but statue, laying in a boat that wouldn't hold a dozen men."

"Still, it was a fearsome dream, to hear our captain tell it. Alright then, we'll carry the thing to him, be it idol of devil." Grunting with effort they lift the image again, and start limping toward shelter.

A random cloud obscures the moon. In the gloom that follows Ragnthor draws near to the buildings from which come shouts and loud bawdy songs. A shadow among shadows he seems.

But at least one devil seems to have had enough of singing. He gives a wry smile to see a dark haired intruder with his back turned. But the smile dies a-borning, with the speed of a saber cat Ragnthor whirls and with a twitch of his wrist sends the raiders dagger flying, a trail of blood marking it's path through the air.

Still, a single yell from part lips and all is undone. But there'll be no yell as strong fingers close on the startled warriors throat, like the jaws of a bear trap, and crush it.

Ragnthor will never know that it was this rouge who, years ago, slew the fisherman's wife after all the sea-dwellers had had their way with her. He will never know, for who will tell him.

The door is open, for the two raiders have carried the idol this way, as the bloody trail shows. Inside are light, warmth, and riotous loud songs. The drinking hall of the feared Sea Raiders! To the young Nord these are ogres. Monsters who prey on his people. Only one thing is need to bring Ragnthor to the brink of madness, and that thing is furnished. There, beneath the brooding visage of the forgotten god, between the man called Thorfel and a sad eyed man who looks to be a priest of Mara, She sits. Lydia, daughter of Halfgar of Whiterun.

She seems greatly out of place among the red haired dogs. Not frail, for the women of rugged Skyrim cannot be that and live, yet still a gleaming rose, torn from its rightful place to Thorfel the Fair to be his…"Bride! Aye you rouges and reavers, tonight your lord and master takes a bride! Tonight I'll change her tears to smiles!"

"Beware her temper," ones yells "They say Nordic girls have claws like cats!" He turns and raises his horn "Another song lads, for Thorfel and his blushing bride!"

While, in the shadows, stands Ragnthor, quivering in nigh-maddened rage. He must wait, til Thorfel leaves with his…but then. Aye but then "Look at her, you sea-lubbers, as your eyes grow green with envy." He hauls Lydia on his lap as she screams "No!" and over all broods the dark man, as if his carved ears hear…something.

"Please, in the name of Kynareth and Mara, have you no mercy in you? Let me go back to my people, to the home you burned."

"Silence girl" Thorfel says, "Don't you know its an honor to marry a chief."

"Another toast then, to Thorfel and…"

"Hammer Of Stendar! I've had enough of ill sung drinking song to last a lifetime. It's A Wife I'm Wanting on this cold night, not a serenade." He stands. "Hear me, all of you! As you know I've brought a priest of Mara here, hauled him bodily from the outpost we found him at. It grows late priest, marry us and have done with it."

The priest looks at the girl. "I must know girl, before the ceremony, do you marry this man willingly?"

She looks at him, both stone faced and pleading. "You know I do not! They struck down kinsmen who would stand for me, haul me off bodily like a soulless beast."

Thorfel grabs Lydia by the hair. "SILENCE WOMAN! I told you I would have a bride. And by Shor's Throne all your wenches squeals will not stop me.

What does the dark man here? Is it strange prows? Grating upon the beach…

"If words won't quiet you, then a stout birch staff Or The Back Of My Hand!" The slap cracks loudly through the hall, knocking Lydia away and to the floor. He is on her in an instant, hauling her up by her hair. "Marry me, you ungrateful wench! Or by Shor I'll forget about the nuptials and take you as a slave!"

The dark man, does he even hear the stroke of a stealthy knife in the night, the gurgle that marks a severed throat?

"Daughter, bethink you! Rough though he made be he offers more than many such would offer. It is, at least, an honorable, married state. For you own sake, marry him and make the best of it!"

"No man begs in the name of Thorfel! Mutter your mummery and wed us preist!"

Lydia looks up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. Thorfel balks, just a moment, at the fire in them. "You red-haired Dog! Do you think a girl of Skyrim would bear the tow-headed cubs of a woman beating thief? I'LL NEVER MARRY YOU!"

"THEN I'LL TAKE YOU AS A SLAVE!"

She gives a frightful smile. "Not That Way Either!" And shoves him with all her strength.

"What in the Gods name…" is all he gets out as he staggers backward before he sees she has his dagger in her hands.

A dagger she quickly reverses and plunges hilt deep into her own chest screaming "THE CURSE OF ALL THE GODS UPON YOU, DOG OF THE SEA!"

"Hammer of Stendar…" is all he says as the body drops to the floor.

Lifeless she fails, one who was so full of life a moment before. Priest, chieftain, and warrior all stare dumbly amid the silence of disbelief.

Then, the shrill warcry of a Northman berserker rips through the stillness like the scream of a saber cat, and the men whirl toward the shriek. Only to see a madman leap amongst them like a wind come straight from hell. For Ragnthor is deep in the grip of black fury. Against which even the fight prowess of the sea raiders pales.

As for Thorfel, the brawny raider gazes, unmoving, at the many men, the mass of flailing bodies which fill the great haul. He sees that steel great sword rising and falling like an executioner's axe, sweeping all before it. He beholds the smiting of left and right, the reckless charge unheeding of life and limb. He meets the strangers gaze, the terrible steel grey eyes burning into his soul and he knows the he is the man's ultimate goal.

For an instant, Ragnthor's path is clear of all but blood and bodies. But then two warriors rise amid the chaos to block his way, only to find they have grabbed hold of a raging mammoth as he, one handed, throws them hard enough to break bones. Then more sea dwellers surge forward and pale arm reach out, too many for even a man berserk to pull from their sockets. A bare chest raider runs forward, blade raised, ready to shear Ragnthor's head from his broad shoulders. But the blade never comes down again and an arrow tears through the bravo's throat.

Suddenly the hall is full of Reachmen, a strange hoard as if the cadavers on the earlier vessel come back to life! They poor through the door, a torrent of Reavers. And over all towers the dark god. He exudes violence and fury. The raw scent of fresh spilled blood seems to fill his nostrils, the red-hairs corpses at his feet are sacrifices to him.

Then, a Reachman's arrow strikes the raider at Ragnthor's side, and the Nord is free! Free to take the bloodied sword once more in hand and crest the tide of slaughter. Still, the madness has left Conan for a moment. And for that moment he forgets Thorfel. For what does a red haired slayer mean to him, when he had beheld a spark of life in the frail girl before him.

"Lydia…" is all he says, voice thick and heavy, before she opens her eyes "Ragnthor?"

She smiles and reaches a hand up to his face. "I…I always told them…that one day you'd…" the hand falls faster then it rose.

And now the fire blazes all the hotter in his chest, a bellow like that of a blood mad bull tears from his throat, for suddenly, amid all the carnage, he sees once more Thorfel the Fair!

Thorfel is not coward. In his day he has stood laughing amid murder and mayhem, arrows flying passed his head. Yet he knows a man in the grips of a berserker rage, a man who fears nothing, not even death itself. So as he runs, he's not laughing now. Nor shall he again. For Ragnthor raises both arms above his head and, with a short, fast motion, sends the great sword spinning end over end to pin Thorfel to the wall.

Now, hands hanging limply at his side, Ragnthor stands still with head bowed. No madness now, only a dark sadness. A deep sense of futility and…yes of weariness. The cries of the wounded sea dweller. As short keen blades draw near their throats, seem to merge with the curse uttered by Lydia, girl of Ragnthor's youth.

Soon those cries are no more and Ragnthor turns. "You, Reachman, what is this thing?"

"I am Brogan, Nord, chief of these outcased men of the Reach. And this is the only god we have left."

Ragnthor notes that as he speaks, the small man lifts the metal statue…as lightly as if it were a feather, born by unknown winds.

"It is the image of Brule, the Spear Slayer. Our ancestor and friend to King Ysgramor, in the days before Atmora froze. It was stolen from our homeland by other Reachmen who died beneath the sword of the raiders, who had chanced upon them. But you our dark god saved. He rode in your boat and did you no harm. We have followed those men and the image for many months, landed in stealth on this island to which he called us. And now we are going home." Thus speaking, the leader turns and is gone.

Then Ragnthor reaches down and gently picks up the body of Lydia. "I failed her, and shall forever live under the shadow of that shame, a burden heavier than any dark god. Still, she will sleep in her homeland, not in the soil of this cold uncaring isle." He turns to the priest "Will you come with me?"

"No, I…there are other boats elsewhere. Perhaps I will follow the Reachmen and learn about the dark faith which sustains them."

"As you will. What are you staring at priest? Your eyes are strange."

"Look! Don't you see? The sea is filled with blood! See how it swims in the rising sun! How will you make it through?"

"I go as I came."

"Indeed, with hands red with blood. You follow a dark path, thought it is not wholly your fault. Almighty Mara, when will the reign of blood cease?"

"Not so long as the race lasts."

The morning winds catch and fill Ragnthor's sail. Into the west he goes, like a shadow fleeing the dawn. And so passes Ragnthor of the Isles from the sight of the priest of Mara. Who stands watching, shading his brow with his thin hand, until the boat is but a speck, far out on the tossing wastes of the sea.

Author's note: So this came to me while I was rereading some of my favorite comics. I got about halfway this story and realize I could sub in Ragnthor and Lydia and it would make sense, with only a few changes. This is not one of the ones where the main character is sleeping his way across the land. Now, if you guys like this, I am willing to do more like this. Canon this time. This character is one I drew a lot of inspiration from when I made Ragnthor. And a lot of the stories in just the first collection would fit in with only a few changes. It would be like a prequel series. I might do it anyway, noncanon. It was fun to do this and it felt good to actually get something out. Also, it was super fun taking a comic and making it a story.


End file.
